Sherlock Fanfiction by Greenseas
by greenseas
Summary: Hope you enjoy my fanfiction! (If not, feel free to give me constructive criticism in the reviews ;) ) My writing style is little bit like that of a classic because I'm currently reading Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and I'm drawing off of that. This will be a mix of crime/mystery and romance, but I'm not sure how much of either will be involved. Hope you like it


I fiddle with the dials on the microscope, focusing the image. Tiny ellipses come into view, flitting from one direction to another, like a flock of sparrows. I admire them for a while, then bring myself to note some points on my notebook. Inadvertently, Sherlock comes into my line of sight. He's standing on the other of the room, one arm frozen in midair, precariously holding a flask full of a bright pink liquid. He's staring right at me, his expression clearly one of confusion. I keep his gaze for a few seconds, then lose interest and go back to observing the bacteria. At length I switch the slide for a less interesting specimen.

I'm engrossed in writing a detailed account of my observations and the theories that have sprung from them when I'm startled by the realization of an unwelcome presence directly behind me. Sherlock. He doesn't seem to notice my surprise or my objection to his closeness. When he finishes reading my work, he spares me a prolonged glance. He turns his head, but for a second his eyes remain on mine before he pulls them away too. His face is as unreadable as ever. I feel colour rise to my cheeks.

Picking up an eye-dropper and a petri dish he remarks, "You're slow." My indignation rises. "Am I?" I reply, completely disinterested now, in whatever he might say, and annoyed at my own tendency to find a meaning whether cannot possibly be one. Sherlock, interested in _me_? I laugh in my head at the thought of Sherlock interested in anyone at all, in any sense deeper than his natural curiosity.

His expression sours. I find my reply at fault- rhetorical questions do not suit him. Without thinking, I try to fix my mistake by adding to my answer. "Well, at least you must admit to me being the best you could find." But his attention has already been fixed elsewhere.Again, having disappointed myself, I resolve to be distant from him. For the next few days I let his all his uncivil remarks pass over my head, attributing them to the failings of nature, which when she favours one individual with all the ornaments of intelligence, quick thinking, and wit, cannot then enhance his standing with decent manners or a sweet disposition. And _his _intellectual superiority so surpasses that of the common man, that the fact that he should be left completely bereft of normal human feelings was not such a shock as I had first perceived it.

My behaviour had been, with such reflections, made much more sensible and forgiving, when chance gave me the opportunity to see that he was not so cold-hearted and incapable of emotion as I fixed him to be. It was the twenty third of December and we had in the past few hours made so much progress in our detective-work on a particularly difficult case, that Sherlock had at last found the answer to it. The case concerned the death of a minor, a particularly disturbed sixteen year old boy, who had been found in his bathroom, with a knife jammed in his chest, by his unfortunate mother. All the details lead us to believe that it was a murder- the wide-eyed expression immortalized on his face, the weapon, the signs of struggle, and above all, many accounts from his mother of the boy's increasing dislike towards his uncle, leading at last to an outright statement that he feared for his safety.

With such information as this, one might easily be persuaded to believe that it could only have been a murder. But for one thing- while everything pointed to murder, no evidence could be found to suggest anyone but the boy's own presence in the house that day. And, as Sherlock is fond of saying, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Suicide. However terrible to consider, he determined that it was the only possibility.

I took it upon myself to not find disgust in the expression of contentedness on Sherlock's face. I knew very well that it stemmed from the pleasure of having solved a new mystery and had the least to do with the circumstances of this boy's death. But I am, of course, only human, and my regard of him had soured for the first time since I had determined to not let him irritate me. His behaviour agitated wounds which I thought had long ago healed, though in a profession as this, I wonder at my having deceived myself.

We had then been leaving the lab compound when Sherlock's attention was caught. I followed his gaze into the darkness of the street and saw- a young boy, probably foruteen years old, partially hidden behind a pillar. Without hesitation, Holmes called out, "What or who are you waiting for?"

After a short silence, the answer came: "Detective Holmes"- in a quiet, but steady voice. Sherlock waited. "Well?" he asked at length. "What do you want from me?" The whites of the boys eyes became more pronounced in his amazement, clearly visible, despite the gloominess of the scene. I wondered about this boy, what he could possibly be doing at this hour waiting for the infamous Holmes. He gave us the answer readily- "Mr. Holmes, my father didn't kill Dean. Please, he didn't, I know it. They didn't get along because my father never thought well of Deans parents. But he only ever said and did what he did to help Dean get better. Please Mr. Holmes. My father is a good man. Don't let my cousin ruin us, too. We're good people. We don't deserve it, sir."

I could barely imagine that these words came from a child; how earnest they were in their plea, and how calmly spoken. The accused uncle himself could hardly have spoken more convincingly of his own innocence. Stunned as I was, I walked closer to the boy and opened my mouth. For want of words, I pulled him close to me and kissed his cold cheek. So closely had I felt once all that this child was feeling- his sense of security torn from him, the promise of misery to follow. How I wished that I could have prevented his having to face what I had! How I desired to relieve him of his burdens! But all I could offer was warmth, and a hurried, though unconvincing, reassurance.

Sherlock had by then stepped closer, since it had been to _him_ the plea had been addressed. As I surreptitiously wiped my frozen cheek he came forward, and allowing for his height, bent his knee to face the boy. His calm voice and the command it inspired did much more good than my weakness could have. "I have found your father's presence in this scheme to be most improbable. This case is most definitely a suicide. Now, where do you live?" With ease he then got the matter taken care of- we returned the boy home to his father whose nerves had been worn thin with worry. I of course followed him, incapable of detaching myself from this young likeness to myself. The father, who had feared his son victim to a similar fate as his nephew's, could barely express his gratitude.

We had turned from the house quite a while back and were walking on the cobblestone street, him admiring the structure of the falling snowflakes, while I endeavored to disguise my distress. This turn of events had brought back old memories and pains in an irrepressible flood of violent emotion, which had for many years, unknown to me, been festering and fermenting. I had for so long held these memories at bay that it had become second nature to turn my attention elsewhere if ever I should be prevailed on to think of it. Now, they would not relent in their resurfacing. Image and feeling washed over me- blood and pain and a coldness that reigns in the absence of joy- I was tormented by them and unable to tear myself from the torrent of emotion which was now ripping my being into pieces. For some minutes I had been occupied in a futile attempt at containing the damage, when Holmes remarked about the peculiar shape of a certain snowflake. "This one is exceedingly beautiful. Come, ****, look at-," he abruptly stopped.

Alas! My efforts were in vain. He clearly saw my distress and after an awkward silence that revealed that he wished he hadn't, he asked me what the matter was. I refrained from replying and kept walking. Sherlock continued now in silence, but, I was painfully aware, a few steps behind me, probably to give him better opportunity to observe me. At length I tore my thoughts away from him, but then became completely at the mercy of agonizing images for which I was unprepared. Two beloved faces, in expressions of the most excruciating pain—

I broke.

A wrangled sob escaped me, and tears slipped with alacrity from my eyes. I covered my mouth and walked still faster. With eyes half shut did I make my way over the snow-crusted streets, wishing for nothing more than solitude, when the warmth of a hand filled my own and a solid shoulder my weak frame meet. I was stiff in my surprise, and almost stopped walking. We continued so for a while, but when I was next pushed under a tide of emotion I was assured of having a friend- I stopped and leaned on him and in his tight embrace I was safe to feel all the pain which I _could not_ alone have borne.


End file.
